Six Epiphanies
by littleblackdog
Summary: Six birthdays of Sherlock Holmes: 1985, 1987, 2006, 2013, 2014, & 2035. John/Sherlock romance, and Sherlock & Mycroft brotherly bond. Contains mentions of adultery, drug use, and sex toys.
1. 1985

It is the _opposite_ of a birthday present, and Sherlock doesn't baulk from saying so, throwing himself bodily over the small suitcase half-packed on Mycroft's bed. Mycroft simply lifts one limp, lanky arm just enough to slip another pair of clean socks into the case, then settles to sit on the bed, stroking a hand over Sherlock's curls.

"I must go back to school." Mycroft's tone is gentle, but not apologetic. Sherlock considers how quickly he would have to move in order to shove the suitcase off the bed and scatter the contents. This bag is not large enough for Sherlock to wedge himself inside, unlike the positively roomy luggage when his brother first left for Eton.

"But it's so _dull_!" Thumping his fists against the duvet, Sherlock ignores the hardback prodding him in the ribs. Novels from Mummy and Father are not interesting presents, nor indeed are the new underthings and socks. Sherlock had spent _months_ reassembling the skeleton of the bat he'd found dead in the verbena behind the conservatory— ants had already taken care of some of the flesh when he found it, and careful boiling in the kitchen after everyone else was deep asleep finished the last of the messy bits. Then had come the paste, fishing line, and an old picture frame from one of the storage cupboards. It had been the _best_ surprise, the only time Sherlock had ever managed to properly surprise his brother with a Christmas present, and Sherlock knows Mycroft wrapped it up in a jumper and tucked in the back of his closet even after Father had ordered it thrown away.

The possibility that it might have been moved to the suitcase suddenly occurs to Sherlock, and he rolls off to sprawl across the mattress instead, headbutting his brother in the podgy softness of his stomach. "Horribly, impossibly dull! You said so in your letters— even when you don't say the words, I_ know_. You hate it just as much as me."

"Just as much as _I_," Mycroft corrects, earning another headbutt.

Blowing air out from his nostrils, Sherlock groans in a near-perfect imitation of Wally, the gardener's bull terrier. "You're going to miss my birthday."

"We had cake and presents today, Sherlock, and I promise I'll ring you tomorrow." His present from Mycroft had been a new book of sheet music, including some pieces that made Sherlock's fingers ache with anticipation of a challenge, and a bag of Sherbert Lemons. He didn't bother remembering any of the other gifts, and he had barely picked at the spongy yellow cake, smearing pale blue icing with his fork.

"Birthdays are terrible, and so are you," Sherlock announces, winding his arms around Mycroft's middle and squeezing too hard, until his brother wraps one arm around Sherlock's shoulders, the angle awkward, and squeezes back.


	2. 1987

There is cake, yellow and spongy, with smooth, buttery icing the colour of a robin's egg. Sherlock doesn't bother even picking up his fork, even as Cook tuts at him from across the kitchen.

Mother is in her room; Sherlock hasn't seen her in four days, and she hasn't spoken to him in twice that. Father's umbrella is missing from the stand by the door, gone along with his overcoat, two suitcases full of clothes, and the faint scent of musky, darkly floral perfume that Mummy has never, ever worn.

And Mycroft— stupid, _useless_ Mycroft, who dragged Sherlock out of the room when the long blonde hairs (at least a foot longer than Mummy had kept her soft wheaten curls in years) on Father's jacket had been pointed out over Christmas dinner. Mycroft is _somewhere else_, likely gone back to Eton, but hopefully as far away from Sherlock as humanly possible.

Mycroft might be a lazy, fat, ugly _tosser, _but Sherlock knows (knows, for absolute certain, with greater faith than he has in anything else except his own senses) that his brother is _clever_.

"I thought you would know better," Mycroft had hissed at him, scruffing him by the collar of his jumper and pulling him up the stairs. Sherlock hadn't struggled nearly as much as he could have, stunned by his brother's unexpected betrayal. "For goodness sake, Sherlock, how could you be so _foolish_?"

Foolish is ignoring such blatant evidence. Foolish is pandering to comfortable lies, swallowing ignorance, keeping quiet when things are so very _obvious_.

If anyone is a fool, it's Mycroft. The only thing worse than being ordinary is pretending to be ordinary.

Folding his knees to his chest, bringing his heels up onto the seat of his chair, Sherlock has never felt so completely alone.


	3. 2006

Everything is agony, from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet, his mouth is foul with the taste of stale vomit, and the beeping of his heart monitor is going to drive him mad before the detox does. Staring up at the hospital ceiling, Sherlock wishes the shivering would stop, at the very least. For the first time in weeks, he is tired enough to want sleep.

Mycroft is such a damned mother hen— it hadn't even been a proper overdose, just a bad hit and a few small seizures. Not nearly reason enough to be plucked out of his wretched little flat by the paramedics he certainly hadn't called, pumped full of Labetalol, and strapped to a cot.

Sherlock hasn't actually seen his brother yet, but beyond the obvious fingerprints all over this heavy-handed farce, there is also the small gift box perched on his tray table. Crisp silver cardboard, tied with a thin blue ribbon— given the size and shape of the box, Sherlock has narrowed the contents down to five probable items, though admittedly if anyone could surprise him, it would be his overbearing arse of a brother. The box itself is a surprise; they haven't exchanged gifts since they were boys.

Could his brother be growing sentimental? That's laughable.

The shaking in his hands continues for some time, trembling to the point of near uselessness, though that's much more to do with poor nutrition than withdrawal. One of the nurses opens the gift for him, despite his scathing protest that he couldn't possibly care less; inside is a glossy new Blackberry.

The phone is already programmed with several numbers Sherlock has no intention of ever calling, but he does keep it; it's not as though Mycroft doesn't already have him under surveillance, and he has every intention of selling it for another model the moment he is released from hospital. His own mobile had been confiscated when Sergeant Lestrade had hauled him in to Scotland Yard after Sherlock had refused to stay out of the scene of that triple homicide on Christmas Eve.

The photos he took will be more useful than anything provided by the ineffectual idiots he'd seen fumbling around with forensic gear. Perhaps, if Lestrade actually _is_ slightly less moronic than average, Sherlock's phone hasn't simply been impounded and forgotten.

"Even if I wanted to," Lestrade had said, in a tone that made clear his dismissal of Sherlock was at least somewhat reluctant. "You think I don't know you're strung out? Can't have a junkie roving around crime scenes, for fuck's sake. Doesn't matter how damned clever you are."

Lying in his hospital bed, weary in that hateful way that makes him resent every unnecessary cell that traps his mind inside in his body, Sherlock scratches absently at his dry palms. He is under no illusions that Mycroft won't keep dragging him back to hospital for every little thing, and the concept of spending more time hemmed in by these sterile beige walls is intolerably dull.

One of the numbers in the new mobile is listed as _Sgt. Lestrade_. Sherlock doesn't waste a single instant wondering how or why Mycroft has that information, but he does type out a careful text, cursing quietly at every incorrect button his thumbs glance across.

**Cat hairs in footprints same as cat hairs on sister's jeans. Check photos thirteen through twenty-two for strange weight distribution pattern. Suspect she wore boots larger than her feet. -SH**

Surely if London can provide him with enough sensory input to be nearly overwhelming, there will be some interesting puzzles tucked away amidst the ocean of boredom. It might be worth a try, if only for the novelty.


	4. 2013

Sherlock doesn't register the date until he catches sight of John's photograph plastered across the front of a tied bundle of garish gossip rags, during one of his rare visits to London. The photo was obviously shot secretly and from a distance, across the grey winter vista of the graveyard. John is using his cane again, apparently, and the sight of that feels rather like a sharp punch to the solar plexus.

_FAITHFUL FRAUD_, the bold headline shouts, and beneath: _John Watson's Teary Birthday Visit to Fake Genius' Grave_.

_Teary_ doesn't accurately describe the stony, pale expression John is wearing, but that hardly matters; it's not as though Sherlock expects even a passing degree of accuracy from the press.

He does realize, however, that he never spent a proper birthday in John's company, which seems strange for a reason he can't quite pinpoint. Sherlock hasn't marked his own birthday in years, but it is precisely the sort of thing that John would have latched upon as an excuse to drag him to a restaurant and cajole him into a meal.

Now, six months removed from that annoying pecking to eat, from the harping to keep his mould cultures and specimens on their designated shelf in the refrigerator, and from the taste of tea made strong, hot, and perfectly sweet and milky... After six months away from _John, _Sherlock can feel the lack, tightening his skin like dry air and making his fingers twitch and dance without pattern or reason. It is intolerable, to be so affected by _sentiment— _and here, six months without hearing John's laugh, Sherlock will not deny that's precisely what this is. Sentiment, insufferable weakness, latched like meathooks into his chest.

He steals a copy of the tabloid, an unseen shadow in the wee hours, and tears out the photograph before binning the rest. He doesn't bother reading any of the drivel attached, simply folds the picture carefully and tucks it into the pocket of his shabby anorak.

It can be helpful to set a goal, after all. A realistic deadline to keep a plan on track, and to encourage forward momentum.

Sherlock is determined to spend his next birthday at 221B.


	5. 2014

He manages to meet his self-imposed deadline with just over an hour to spare, Greenwich Mean.

Sherlock is aware that most people would likely term John's continued residence at Baker Street (after a few months away early on) as _unhealthy_, but neither of them fits comfortably within the domain of the _ordinary_, thank god. More significantly, it was convenient for his current purpose, which Sherlock appreciated much more than any notions of _healthy behaviour_ as prescribed by _most people_.

Of course, Sherlock isn't stupid— he's not about to sneak into the flat without any warning, whether or not John is still in possession of his Sig (Sherlock assumes he is). Waking Mrs. Hudson is not a task he's prepared to undertake either; he needs to see John first.

He does, in the end, pick the lock (John has wisely changed them) and creep silently upstairs, expertly avoiding the creaking step. There will be time later for cataloguing all the changes to the flat (of which there are fewer than he'd feared, honestly; it seems he is not the only one suffering from sentiment, if the barely moved state of his books, his chair, and other incidentals are any indication). Settling to sit on the far end of the sofa, closest to the window, Sherlock pulls his phone from the pocket of his Belstaff (finally, _finally_ able to wrap up in the familiar wool again, with only Moran left to deal with and the endgame already begun).

The cool light of the screen is brilliant in the darkness of the flat. Sherlock stares at it for a moment, considering, then punches a few keys.

**I want a cup of tea. Where did you move the bags? -SH**

It takes slightly more than three minutes for the thunder of bare feet down the stairs, during which time Sherlock has reconsidered the drama of the shadowy flat, and flicked on a lamp. It's enough light to illuminate John's face the moment he rushes into the living room, pistol in hand, dressed in pyjama bottoms and one of Sherlock's long-sleeved sleep shirts.

Beneath mussed hair, John's eyes are wide and impossibly dark. His mouth drops slack, and the sound that escapes him when he catches sight of Sherlock is breathy and pained. It drives Sherlock's heart against his ribs, catching all words in his throat. Then John sways, legs gone unsteady even as his gaze stays pinned as though afraid to blink, and Sherlock is on his feet in an instant, reaching out.

"John..." It is more rasping than he ever intended, as though all this time without saying the name has rusted it, and John shudders at the sound, gasping wet and wordless.

And very shortly thereafter, as Sherlock predicted might happen, he ends up nursing a black-eye and bloodied nose.

Sherlock considers it the best birthday of his adult life.


	6. 2035

When Sherlock wakes from an unusual full night's rest— five hours of solid sleep, though the strenuous sexual activity beforehand may have contributed to his laziness— the first glimmer of sharp winter sunlight has just begun to filter through the curtains. They've had a few dustings of snow since Christmas, but the house is comfortably warm; sleeping chilled makes John's shoulder ache, and Sherlock simply won't abide that.

It is especially warm under the duvet, lying with his cheek pillowed on John's other shoulder and his arm thrown across John's chest. Sherlock is content, for the moment, to count John's slow, even breaths against the crown of his head. His mind is relatively placid, most of the activity dialled down to a low hum in the back of his skull. It feels a bit like his hives: dormant in the bite of winter, but still buzzing softly with potential.

He is not bored, and he is certainly not numb.

It is only ever this peaceful with John.

Then, eventually, John stirs beside him, stretching. Familiar fingers card through Sherlock's hair, gently ruffling dark curls ever so slightly streaked with grey, just at his forelock. Humming his agreement with the very welcome petting, Sherlock shifts closer, hooking one leg over John's knees.

"Mm, morning." John presses a kiss against his hair, and Sherlock tilts his head up to see the smile he heard in those hoarse words. It is a crooked little grin, deepening the lines at the corners of John's hooded eyes, and Sherlock can feel an answering expression spread across his own face. "Happy birthday, love."

"Thank you." John hadn't bothered with secrecy in years; Sherlock knows about the small chocolate cake in the refrigerator, and the exact contents of the neatly wrapped packages waiting on a shelf in the linen closet. It is more than a little delightful that John is giving him a new set of volumetric flasks— apparently, he's been sufficiently forgiven for _The_ _Incident_.

And the absolutely beautiful glass dildo, swirled deep blue and violet and flared perfectly at the head, is even more exciting than the flasks. Sherlock had been hard-pressed not to ask (_beg_) for it the night before, but John had done an excellent job of distracting him with his hands, his mouth, and then his cock drilling Sherlock expertly and mercilessly into the mattress.

The thought of cool glass pressing slickly into his still tender arse sounds like a very promising start to the day, and John's grin curls wide and indulgent when Sherlock suggests it.

"God, you're still such a brat," John sighs, and Sherlock doesn't think to argue when he's rolled onto his back, though his joints are a bit stiff. There are still certain traditions to observe, after all, though nothing so stodgy as cake on the fine china and presents after tea.

Among the many things Sherlock has learned in the last twenty years, one of the most rewarding discoveries has been that birthday blow jobs are never, ever dull.


End file.
